


CI5 in D&D Land

by Chya



Category: CI5: The New Professionals
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aliens, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-30
Updated: 1999-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chya/pseuds/Chya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the titles hints at.</p><p>Bonkers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	CI5 in D&D Land

**Author's Note:**

> Credit goes to Lizi for putting ideas in my head, to Jill and Claire for encouraging me, to Al for not stopping me and especially to Jill,

Sam Curtis and Chris Keel, CI5 agents extraordinaire, held onto each other for dear life (at least, that was their excuse) as their good friend and colleague, Tina Backus, crawled on the floor muttering worrying things such as, "Green goes to blue and red goes to pink. Or is that blue goes to pink and green goes to... mmm... lets try this..."

Chris and Sam looked at each other, their eyes huge with fear, a feeling they were both wholly unaccustomed to.

Backup's chirpy voice floated up to them. "Chris, what colour underwear are you wearing?"

"White!" he replied immediately, his dimples peeking out to see if it was time to play because this was his stock answer (regardless of the truth) when women crawled at his feet whilst they asked this particular question (which, surprisingly, was a lot).

There was more muttering before Backup's voice floated up again. "Sam, what colour underwear are you wearing?"

Sam blushed a stunningly beautiful shade of bright red before he stuttered out. "Erm, pink! No! I mean um... red! No, I mean uh, uh... ... green, that's it! Green... matches my eyes..."

Chris stared at him accusingly. "You're commando, aren't you?"

Sam glared back at him before, realising that the only part of Backup looking their way was her bum, winked lasciviously at his partner. "Always prepared, old chap, always prepared." Then he turned his attention back to Backup. "Why do you want to know?" he asked.

Chris replied, smugly, "Idiot! It's to help her make up her mind which wires to cut down there."

"No," disagreed Backup sounding just a tad distracted. "It was just to keep me entertained while I sorted out this wiring. It's definitely a man who did this; it's all knotted and messy. One of these days we'll deal with a female bomber who'll have all her wires neatly tied and labelled and I... Oh..."

"Oh?!" Sam and Chris chorused, clinging onto each other even tighter.

"Oops..."

Sam and Chris stared at each other and swallowed hard.

And the world went Ka-Boom...

*****

With a lot of groaning and shielding his eyes from an overly bright sun, Chris Keel woke up. A heavy and groaning lump on top of him was indicative that Sam was also waking up.

He shoved Sam away and looked around. Backup was groaning by a nearby large rock, which seemed out of place in the parking garage where he was sure he'd been last. In fact, the sun was also out of place in the garage. Both suns were out of place in the garage. As was the endless desert that seemed to stretch out all around them.

The suns were hot, and Chris realised for the first time that his clothes seemed to have... well, they weren't actually on his person any more. Or anywhere to be seen. Sam and Backup seemed to be in a similar state of attire and the three of them spent awkward moments not looking at each other.

At the same time they seemed to become aware of a heap of things by the big rock. But none of them wanted to move from their little huddles to find out what they were.

Backup sniffed and said, "I'm Canadian, I'm polite. Gentlemen first."

Sam gulped and said very quickly, "I'm English, I'm modest. Yanks first."

Chris blinked and, knowing he was helplessly outnumbered, stood up and said, "I'm American, I don't give a shit," before grabbing the first thing that came to hand.

There was a big flash of sparkly gold light and Chris stood there in what looked like Robin Hood style clothing. Sexy knee high brown leather boots, very unsexy green tights and an incredibly sexy green jerkin (that displayed to perfection the hard earned sculpted abs, pecs et al that he was so very proud of) along with brown leather belts and studded bits. For a weapon, he was holding a very large bow (not of the tie-on variety which was fortunate since Chris had a bad history with those particular beasties that had left him irrevocably traumatised) that was a particularly disgusting shade of yellow.

Neither Sam nor Backup knew quite how to respond to this, but clothing was clothing so they both dived into the pile, every person for themselves as politeness and modesty vanished altogether.

When Sam had got his eyesight back, he decided that Chris definitely had the better end of the bargain. Green and brown were not so bad. Not compared to what the Englishman had been lumbered with. The sword and shield were rather natty, if not quite as effective as his Beretta and personalised Kevlar vest. Having said that, the chain mail that fitted snugly up his thighs, over his bum (that he was perfectly sure was his best attribute after his eyes since so many women – and men - begged him to wear Speedos) and down his arms could probably protect him quite well if need be. However, he would be at a definite disadvantage if they had to swim (just because they were in the desert, he wasn't about to take anything for granted) and in this hot dual sunlight, he was even now beginning to cook.

But what really assaulted his sense of taste was the bright red cloak (Camouflage? Stealth? He'd stick out like a sore thumb wherever he went!) and the bright yellow jerkin and gauntlets (Yellow? Yellow?!). He actually thought he might expire right there on the spot from the sheer mortification. Or maybe he really was just cooking inside his armour.

While Chris and Sam looked aghast at themselves and spent a long moment appreciating the finer points (while trying not to laugh hysterically) of each other's outfits, something shuffled and hopped in confusion behind them.

"What the fuck is going on here!?" shrieked a very familiar high voice.

They turned to find a very large green pointed hat jumping around the area and squeaking. It was so large it could quite conceivably have concealed a person. And, seeing no sign of Backup, between them Chris and Sam came to the conclusion that Backup might be inside the animated hat.

They revealed their well thought out conclusion to Backup, whose subsequent reply was unprintable.

"A wizard's hat only does what its wizard wishes," an ancient voice stated from on top of the rock.

"Right," sniggered Chris. "Backup, tell your hat that your head isn't as big as it appears, that it needs to shrink to fit"

She did and it shrank. Unfortunately, the hat's idea of 'head' included her face. But, being a fairly intelligent girl, she revised her instruction and the hat finally sat on her head where it obviously thought it belonged. She was dressed in flowing green and blue robes and a red sash, which was a far cry from her normal attire.

"How can I move in this?!" she cried in disbelief.

"How did you move in that little black dress you were wearing when I picked you up the other night?" asked Sam snidely.

Chris raised an eyebrow at Sam in question.

"To go on that surveillance op at the cinema," Sam explained, blushing slightly. "The night you were busy with Richards, remember?"

Chris snorted. "Surveillance at the cinema, good one!"

Backup pouted angrily, ignoring their little tiff. "That was different. That was Gucci." Lifting up her hem she waved a winkle-pickered foot. "And right now I would kill for Prada, or at the very least a decent pair of Doc Martens."

The boys looked at her livid face and took an involuntary step backwards while clinging onto each other for safety. Once realising what they were doing, they each blushed and let each other go very quickly, pretending it didn't happen.

Backup was still ranting. "And what the hell are these?" She pulled off a pair of glasses that were thicker than the giant magnifying glass Spencer kept for examining his stamp collection, and threw them away.

"Well," said the little man who was sitting on top of the large rock with the white Phil Collins hair do and the bright red robe, "you were supposed to have been the barbarian (lots of flesh visible for the boys), or at least the thief (who would have got to stare winsomely at the handsome lead...), but it's too late to change your mind now, young lady!"

Chris and Sam both puffed their chests out under the impression that each one of them was the handsome lead without realising that the little old munchkin was referring to himself. Neither fancied Backup in the least (of course, we know who each of them really fancied, but we haven't get that far into the story yet) – the thought would have been too much like dating their own sisters, if they'd had sisters. But it was the principle of the thing.

The little old munchkin continued talking, not particularly seeming to care if anyone was listening or not. "I am the Dungeon Master," he droned. "Although DeeYem would be an acceptable alternative. And it's your job to kill the Wicked Witched and find your way back to Kansas."

He frowned as his three new students glared at him. "You're not Dorothy, Toto and...?" he looked at Sam, "No, there's no space for you in that scenario... unless you want to join in a bit later as the Scarecrow? No?"

Sam's horror filled face was enough for DeeYem to sigh and pull out a scroll to examine.

Chris was grumbling at Backup. "No way I'm Toto, man. There is no way he's making out that I'm – "

"And you'd rather be Dorothy?" sneered Backup. "I guess blue is your colour so I would imagine the gingham dress would be perfect for you."

"Ugh! Don't even - !"

"Stop fighting, children!" the wrinkled one snapped. "Now let's see, you don't have an annoying bleating baby unicorn hanging around, so you can't be the roller coaster children. Um... do we have any dwarves or drow in the party? No? Right, Icewind Dale is out then... so, we have three humans... a wizard, a ranger and a cavalier, um... maybe a Runequest or... can you do Lawful Evil, girl? Oh, never mind... mumble mutter... of course a Call of Cthulu scenario would've been better for you lot... mutter mumble techno babble mumble... Hmph."

Finally, DeeYem put his scrolls away and studied them. "Right, well, you're not supposed to be here, so I don't have an adventure for you. I've cast a Parameter spell on you and as far as I can see at least one of you has to have an encounter with Orcs, one of you an encounter with Elves, and just because I'm in a bad mood, at least one of you has to have an encounter with a Dragon. Then you can all go home. Now, before we send you on your way, which one of you brought you all here... quickly, quickly, I don't have all day, and the dice are rolling."

Three blank stares looked back at him and he grunted impatiently. "You're on Middle Earth, a different reality to what you're used to, and there are only so many ways you can get here. You aren't Players, and I don't sense any powerful mage spells on you. The only other way is if one of you is a Dreamer. Now, has any of you been reading a TSR book? Or Dragonlance? Or Tolkein, perhaps? Have any of you had encounters with D&D, that is, Dungeons & Dragons before?"

The two boys shuffled nervously and Sam blushed (again!). Chris and Backup looked at him curiously. Then Chris pointed at Sam and laughed. "You did! I bet you belonged to the D&D club that got together in a dark crypt somewhere in the middle of the night to play once a week."

Sam cleared his throat nervously. "It was a dark room in the university library actually, and it was after the Student Union shut every Friday and Saturday night..."

Chris sniggered. "I bet you played an Elf..."

Sam sniffed. "I did actually. Mostly a very powerful (and manly) Elven... bard..."

Chris and Backup doubled up with laughter.

Sam, his feelings hurt, pouted attractively and mumbled, "I bet you both did something like that."

"Not me," gasped Backup between gales of laughter.

Chris, however, grew suspiciously quiet. "Er... yeah, well, I did a little Live Action stuff, y'know?" he finally admitted. "String chain mail and rubber swords and wandering around a set of caves by torch light... that kinda thing."

Now Sam was sniggering, picturing Chris with a homemade sword, shield and lopsided helmet like one of the kids out of Hagar.

Backup was on the floor in fits of laughter. "Oh, the things you learn! The closest I ever got was watching that stupid kids cartoon – "

DeeYem suddenly jumped up to his full height of two feet and shouted, "It's your fault I look like this, girl! I hate this guise! Why can't someone picture me as Sean Bean?" He waved his wand and Backup vanished in a cloud of sparkly bits.

"What have you done with her!" Chris and Sam cried in unison. "We need her to pull our arses/asses out of the fire!"

"Well you'll have to pull her ass out of the fire," DeeYem sniffed. "Since I understand Orcs like to roast their dinner. And you'll need to contact the local Elven community to complete the task, don't forget. Goodbye." And DeeYem vanished, never to be seen again. Until the next time, anyway.

"So, what, we're looking for something that looks like Tinkerbell, right?" Chris asked as the two bewildered young men set forth through the desert, constantly on the lookout for anything remotely threatening.

"Probably more like Mister Spock with the ears," Sam replied knowledgably.

"I thought you didn't like Star Trek?"

"I don't. But I grew up watching the original because it was the done thing at the time."

"So you won't have seen the new one then? With the Quantum Leap Kid?"

"No. Definitely not." A pause. "That's the one with the female Captain, isn't it?"

"Sam! That was Voyager, which ran seven years and is now finished! At least until they do the inevitable movie. This is a brand new one, set before Captain Kirk, and has this Vulcan chick who has this really hot scene with the spu – uh – Chief Engineer in the first episode."

"And your point with this, Chris...?"

"Er - just wondering if any these Vulcan type elves might be like her, is all..."

"If you have anything to do with it Chris, I'm sure they will be."

Chris rolled his eyes and muttered, "Shows how much you know, smart ass."

The endless barren desert soon gave way to rolling green hills with no discernable water supply, and just a few steps on flowers began to appear. Chris cautioned against inhaling the pollen, and Sam cautioned against spending the night (which didn't appear to be approaching but sounded good anyway) in poppy fields.

However, neither could resist the allure of the overly large, eminently cuddly, soft furry bunny rabbits loping around near the edge of a small copse. Their big pink dewy eyes looked at the boys with such innocence and absolute cuteness just begging to be picked up and cuddled. Even Sam's hardened heart melted.

The Englishman crouched awkwardly down to scratch a purring bunny behind its long silky ears. His green eyes, normally icy, now sparkled with an inner warmth as he responded to the bunny's purring with a big sloppy grin. He watched the bunny Chris was holding nuzzle his partner's throat, its neat, pink tongue lapping at the slightly stubbled flesh.

Enjoying the American's broad flashing smile, immersing himself in the gleam, Sam thought his eyes were blurring until he realised that the sharp little front teeth of Chris' bunny were lengthening and curving outwards into vicious fangs.

Giving the bunny by his knees a vicious kick, Sam leapt over to his unsuspecting partner, ripping the creature out of the other man's arms by its powder puff tail. Chris blinked and the fuzzy feelings vanished as they both took in the now rabid bunnies, who all seemed to have developed blazing red eyes and dripping fangs.

Both men grabbed for their guns, feeling suddenly very naked at the realisation they weren't there, before turning tail and running. Very fast. Until they were quite sure they'd left the vampire bunnies behind.

They stopped to catch their breath at the entrance to a cave in the range of mountains that had been lurking in the midst of the rolling hills.

They did not see the single huge eye that blinked at them from the depths of the cave. Which was probably a good thing. Although the creature that owned that very large eye didn't think so because it was very hungry and very lonely, and having two visitors at the same time would have solved both its problems.

Oblivious, Sam and Chris carried on their way, neither having the foggiest idea where they were going, but having some vague notion that a forest type environment would be a good place to look for Vulcan type elves.

Eventually they came upon a river that ran a bright, bright blue. They saw in the distance, what looked like a river of blood, and another that looked like a river of... well it was bright yellow anyway. They walked a short way along its banks until they found a rickety old bridge across the bright blue river. The bridge had a neat sign next to it, announcing the river as 'The River Bols (Blue)'.

Chris led the way cautiously over the bridge in his unmistakably cat-like manner, indicating loose and dodgy planks. Sam tried very hard to do the same, usually able to match his partner's feline moves with his own unique brand of shadowy stealth. Unfortunately, the chain mail put a bit of a damper on that idea. His mind, body and training led him to place each foot delicately and surely onto each plank, disturbing not a splinter of wood. The chain mail made each foot hit the wood with a resounding stomp and a shake of the entire bridge.

Rolling his eyes at Chris' glare, he could only shrug an apology he really didn't think he should've had to give. If he could work out how to get the damned armour off he would. Well, he would if someone could give him some kind of guarantee that no more vampire bunnies or suchlike were around.

Wood cracked and Sam saw the bridge whiz past his eyes as he fell, his attempts at agility failing under the weight of iron. His air supply suddenly cut off and he felt certain his neck was broken as he jerked to a very abrupt halt, the cloak twisting a stranglehold on him.

He tried to call for help but only a little croak came out as he dangled above the river, convinced his own cloak was trying to do him in. He desperately tried to haul the material from his windpipe, his legs kicking as they tried to find purchase.

A tugging from behind or above made the cloak dig in hard and spots appeared before his eyes. This is it, Sam thought as his eyes rolled manically and his tongue felt as if it filled his entire mouth.

The darkness started to close in...

... and then he was hauled back onto the bridge and could once again breathe.

"Gee, Sam," Chris grinned at him at he rubbed his aching arm. "You've put on some weight, haven't you? And you're looking kinda red in the face. You should get more exercise."

If Sam hadn't still been trying to fill his poor oxygen-starved lungs with air, he was certain he would have thumped his partner, but having less than no energy he just sprawled where he was.

He was contemplating the twin suns above and thinking about making his aching limbs function again when a loud yell spurred him into movement.

He rolled awkwardly to his feet and walked as fast as he could in the direction of the yell, (a very distinctive American yell), growing somewhat concerned when it stopped. He could just about see Chris a few feet away, lying on his back in the grass with his eyes closed, and a lazy smile playing about his lush lips. But although he was in the grass Chris seemed to be sliding very slowly through it, head first. It took Sam a little while, seeing as how the American was wearing a lot of green and the Englishman was sure he was becoming grass blind, but with the aid of a little sign he tripped over, the ex-spy decided he knew what was happening.

The little sign said 'The River Bols (Green)'.

Excellent camouflage, thought Sam, as he waded into the river (that he could only see if he squinted sideways), moving carefully even though the entire river was only ankle deep, and pulled Chris out by one boot.

Concerned by his partner's lack of response, Sam tried to revive him, getting some mumbled nonsensical grumblings.

"Chris, did you drink any of the water? Chris, listen to me, did you drink any?"

"Mmm, sweet," the other man replied, before rolling over and snuggling up to Sam's knees. He frowned and, without opening his eyes, tried to pummel Sam's iron clad knees into submission. Gave up, rolled the other way and curled up into a ball, with mumblings that had something to with blind and anally retentive and hard something-or-others.

Now, Sam Curtis (being quite a bright sort of chap occasionally) had long known exactly what these rivers were made of, but his rational mind had refused to acknowledge his conclusions and had told the smart part of his brain to get lost. On scooping up a little of the green water, sniffing and tasting it, Sam's rational mind was now forced to give up and go on strike. The river really was made of green Bols, and his partner was paralytically drunk.

In consideration of the fact that DeeYems, stupid clothes, vampire bunnies and rivers of Bols were too much to take in, and that he'd done exceptionally well in not hopping on the next boat to la-la-land, Sam decided to go to sleep, because it didn't look like the suns were going to set any time today. Before he'd finished the thought, he was asleep.

When he woke up, he wished he hadn't.

*****

When Chris woke up quite a few hours later, he was only aware of having the most appalling hangover in the history of the universe. His normal inclination would have been to have the normal SEAL cure-all; half a packet of Nurofen washed down with half a pint of gin. Maybe not medically recommended but it was effective, one way or another.

No gin, no Nurofen, no implement to help with the so obviously required decapitation process.

He wallowed in misery, too dizzy, nauseous and generally in pain to dredge up even the most pitiful attempt at macho martyrdom for quite a long time. But in time, a very soft humming that sawed through his suffering brain began a process that he really didn't understand, and once he was able to slit his eyes open, felt no particular inclination to understand as he began to feel more human.

A soft silver glow outlined the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen leaning over him. Golden ringletted locks cascaded around a flawless face. Her azure eyes, exotically slanted just a touch, small pert nose, exquisite rosebud mouth and shell like ears that curved to graceful points completed the picture that he could immediately see. Her voice was musical as she spoke, words tumbling as clear spring water skipping over rocks as she asked how he was feeling.

Wonderful, he mouthed, but he seemed so very far away from himself as he gazed upon the lovely visage in such soft focus.

"Brondelmud!" screeched a voice from nearby. "Leave those spells alone and leave that boy be! You know what swimming in the Bols does to humans and I'm not doing the washing again!"

Chris blinked aghast as the soft focus sharpened into a young woman with pointy ears, one of which drooped, squinty pale blue eyes that certainly had an alien type exotic slant, a big nose, missing teeth, stringy mouse brown hair, bad breath and acne.

The washing had to be done again.

*****

Sam, in the meantime, had become the honoured guest of a small group of Goblins. Very big and ugly humanoid creatures. Feeling a bit woozy when he first woke up, he saw very large pointy ears and enquired as to whether they were Elves. The uproarious laughter and the reply that yes, they were indeed elvses, didn't entirely convince him. Trying to recall his university days, he'd put the ugliness together with the hideous smell and decided that they were Goblins.

Tied at the hand and hobbled at the foot, the only advantage that Sam really had was that he was quite smart, as we've already established. The Goblins on the other hand were, shall we say, substantially lacking in grey matter. Not for lack of trying - they were artists in sucking... er... ingesting other species grey matter, but it didn't seem to make any difference to their own.

In this particular case, Sam was actually quite lucky. The Goblins had kidnapped him to take as a sacrifice to the Dragon that lived inside Smoky Mountain. Otherwise, Sam would have currently been enjoying life as the centrepiece of the Goblins' Sunday Roast.

Upon enquiring after the health of his partner, it seemed that the reason the Goblins hadn't spotted Chris was that they had bad eyesight and he'd been too well camouflaged. Sam didn't worry, quite confident that when things got really bad for him, when the situation became hopeless, Chris would be there to rescue him. Because that's what they did for each other. When Backup wasn't around.

Of course, thought Sam, gagging as a Goblin passed too close, it was a given that the creatures also had a very bad sense of smell. Unlike himself, who'd always prided himself on his sensitive nose (in respect to wine, anyway). He'd been jealous of Chris' sensitive nose for quite a long time, being unused to any other person's proboscis being more skilled than his own. But that had changed when Sam realised that whilst his nose was highly skilled in the Realm of Fine Wines, Chris' nose was limited merely to being highly skilled in the Art of Female Perfumes and Men's Aftershaves.

Now getting back to the Dragon issue, the Goblins were mighty pleased with themselves and took very good care of their sacrifice to old Smokey, because they knew that Smokey liked crunchy food. Well, they didn't actually know that, because they'd never ever seen Smokey. But the story of Smokey had been passed down for generations and they'd pushed sacrifices into the hole at the base of Smokey's mountain for generations and Smokey had never come and gobbled the Goblins up, so the sacrificing must be working, mustn't it? No sane Goblin would ever argue with that logic so they were determined to take care of their sacrifice. It was a tradition. Kuh-Nig-Its, (or Cavaliers) were the best food for Dragons because the armour kept the meat inside nice and ripe as the stink (to Goblin noses) could attest.

And while they were busy taking care of Sam, said honoured guest was trying to discover a way to escape, which given the stupidity of these creatures, he was pretty confident he could do. And besides which, Chris still had to do his daredevil rescue yet.

Sam was still trying to figure out a way to escape when they shoved him into a big hole.

*****

Chris had recovered his equilibrium in all ways, but was really wishing that Elves looked like either Tinkerbell or maybe that Vulcan chick. He'd even seen all that Lord of the Rings hype, and Elves were meant to be beautiful and graceful and look like Liv Tyler, weren't they? Because these two weren't in any way like any of the above options. And from what he'd seen of Outside - that is, Outside the little shack that he currently occupied with Brondelmud and her father? husband? brother? son? (whatever relationship they had it was abnormal and freaky), Squalmud. Anyway, from what little he'd seen of Outside, all the Elves here were pretty much the same.

According to Squalmud, they were the Romulan clan of Elves, and weren't interested in anything other than eating, drinking and making merry (which explained the bad teeth and complexion that seemed common amongst these Elves), and that if the green Bols boy wanted the emotionless pretty ones on the other side of the hill he was welcome to them. This was closely followed by the statement the Vulcan clan did not tolerate beings that stank of alcohol. Chris thought that was a bit rich coming from a life form that stank of mead and dead deer and as such, ignored him.

It came to him that he'd forgotten something important, that he felt like he was missing a limb. It was a feeling that made him slightly uncomfortable. That feeling stayed with him until he'd left the Romulan village and he remembered what he'd forgotten.

Where the hell was Sam?

He turned around to ask one of the Romulans, but the village was no longer visible.

Well, he was meant to be a Ranger wasn't he? He'd find Sam that way. After he'd found the other Elves and asked them.

Because he kinda missed the way the chain mail clung to Sam's... knees.

*****

Sam had found himself at the bottom of a hole and at the beginning of a passage, but without any sign of his partner coming to rescue him.

Shrugging to himself, with his hands still tied behind his back and his feet still hobbled by a short length of rope, he'd made his way forwards, and after performing a couple of jumps and rolls that Lara would have been proud of, found himself where he was now.

Staring right into the golden cat-slit eye of an exceptionally large bronze Dragon.

Now, as anyone who's read Dragonlance knows, a metallic coloured Dragon is generally a good Dragon, and a non metallic coloured Dragon is generally an evil Dragon.

Sam had never read Dragonlance.

He tried to back away very fast, but with his hands tied, his feet hobbled, his chain mail weighing very heavily and his Lara Croft energy bar depleted, he only fell backwards over his own feet to land heavily on his backside, (which is very painful when one is wearing full body chain mail, trust me on this).

The Dragon just laughed, a sound that shook the very mountain.

And then introduced himself exceptionally politely (Dragons are one of the most polite races in existence in any reality; even evil ones will enquire after your health before eating you) as Beretorresfindoslantisanctumaliphachiliminus the third.

"Er... a bit of a mouthful, but an, er, appropriately – large - name." Sam stuttered the compliment as best he could, having been brought up to believe that good manners came first and foremost, even if your host did appear to be eyeing you up for dinner.

"A little hard for your tiny little tongue to get itself around?" Beretorresfindoslantisanctumaliphachiliminus the third asked, blowing a modestly huge smoke ring from one nostril, before flicking out his own obscenely long and flexible tongue to demonstrate its suitability for the task of pronouncing Dragon names. "However, you may call me 'Bert' if you must."

"Er, Bert, nice to make your acquaintance, I'm sure. Ah, I don't suppose you could see your way to um - letting me go?"

"Of course," said Bert as he blinked his enormous golden eyes. "It's that way." He pointed to the Dragon-sized door behind him, and Sam could see a much smaller door near the bottom, obviously for non-Dragon-shaped persons such as himself.

"Um... you're not going to eat me then?" asked Sam, nervously.

"No," said Bert matter-of-factly. "Why would I do that? I'm a vegetarian."

"A - a vege-"

"A veg - e - tar – ian," huffed Bert. "Why do you simple little creatures insist on thinking that all of us Dragons are carnivores? Just because we have big, sharp fangs, a lack of molars and claws designed to rend flesh from bone, as well as pulling the meat out of armour a chunk at a time, I really don't see why you should all jump to conclusions, do you? I mean, it's not like this is real life, is it? Normal physics and biological imperatives don't necessarily apply. This is Middle Earth where the inherent magic makes all things possible and the impossible probable. I suppose I could forgive Adventurers such as yourself since you can't help your ignorance, but one would think that a native species would know by now that if they're going bestow gifts then the appropriate variety would be that of fruits and berries... Oh. Are you still here?" Bert seemed to blink himself awake.

"Er, yes," said Sam. "My hands are tied and my feet are hobbled, which makes climbing over this pile of gold coloured stuff a bit tricky."

Bert blinked at him and said slowly, "Gold – coloured – stuff..."

"Er- ?" Sam said intelligently, as it occurred to him that he'd said a Wrong Thing.

Bert's massive head drew up and then down to within a few inches of Sam, who suddenly discovered that looking straight up a Dragon's nostril really was not something he'd care to repeat. Ever.

He fought down his gag reflex and shut his eyes, opening them again very suddenly as the ropes fell away from his arms and ankles. A pop of air and the Dragon had swung his head away, leaving Sam to relax just a teeny bit as he flexed his fingers and toes.

"This gold is real gold, little man, and it is not stuff!" Bert looked extremely put out and Sam made a note in his mental logbook, that one should never insult a Dragon's - erm-

"It's treasure!" Bert spat.

\- treasure. And never to stand too close to a Dragon when it's spitting.

"It's antiques and magicks and coinage and history and golden magnificence!" Bert cried, rearing up as Sam scuttled along the outside of the golden hoard while trying to wipe Dragon spit from himself.

"Stuff indeed!"

Using every last vestige of his extensive stealth training, Sam clomped through the door and out of the mountain.

He observed from above the Goblins throwing a screaming sacrifice into the same hole he'd been thrown down. He observed the exceptionally visible Dragon door in the mountain with its neat Dragon sized post box and welcome sign, and reconfirmed his pretence that it was all a dream. At least, he hoped it was. Anything else, he simply couldn't compute.

*****

Chris, in the meantime, was using his own innate tracking skills to find his way over the hill to the Vulcan elves. He carefully sorted out the recognisable deer tracks from the fox tracks, the less recognisable Elf-type tracks from deep, heavy, unknown stompy tracks. He checked fresh spoor against old spoor and examined twiglets and leaves, and once in a while, maybe at a meeting of paths, he'd check that he was on track by reading the little wooden signposts that pointed the way to the 'Vulcan Elf Village'.

Inevitably and eventually he came to a sparkly clean village with beautifully mosaiced pathways and exquisitely architectured houses with spiralling roofs that glinted with hints of copper and gold, yet all painted in pastel colours that blended perfectly together to create an artistic masterpiece. Even the people were dressed and carried themselves with poise and perfection. The image that Brondelmud had projected would have fit in perfectly.

And for some reason it was all so beautifully perfect that Chris rather felt like he'd eaten an entire bag of icing sugar (this is not a pleasant experience - trust me on this.) and felt quite saccharinely nauseous. He wondered if this was all an illusion. Certainly there were no raised voices or screeching. They were all quite emotionless in fact. And Chris wondered quite what or whom he was supposed to speak to here.

As he was wondering and wandering towards the middle of the village he spied, right by an ornate pond with snow-white swans and pink water lilies, a booth helpfully marked 'Information'. So by this time, fully accepting the surrealism of whatever was happening here and going along with the idea that he was suffering from some serious DT's, he asked for whomever he should speak to.

The blonde Elf Bimbette with the ludicrously large violet eyes and collagen-enhanced lips lisped that she would make an appointment with The Elder. But that in the meantime, he should go to the Sanitation Building to get cleaned up before he was arrested for despoiling the pavement.

Chris looked down at himself and admitted that yes, he was a bit muddy and certainly dusty, and stank of alcohol, though he didn't think he was in that bad a state. But upon seeing Bimbette give two larger-than-they-had-any-right-to-be Elf men in identical blue costumes and identical stern looks he decided that, although his body was a highly trained lethal weapon that could take them down without pausing for breath, it might actually be a good idea to not argue and just go take a bath.

Not argue? He shook his head and thought that he might not be feeling well.

And come to think of it, the term 'Sanitation Building' sounded just a tad worrying.

The building itself was long and low and looked a bit like an elongated car wash. With some trepidation Chris went in the door wondering how he was expected to pay for this. At the reception desk, his questions were answered in a long involved contract upon which he was to put his mark before Sanitation could be embarked upon.

It was apparently a public service and therefore free, but the Elven Bureaucracy decreed that there should be a disclaimer for everything. Disclaimers upon disclaimers upon disclaimers, in fact. The alternative was to be kicked out into the Romulan village. Which Chris would have loved if he weren't so sure he needed to speak to The Elder.

Nervously he signed and gave himself over to a Vulcan Elf who had this scarily anticipatory gleam in her eye, along with a neatly printed name badge that announced her name as Jilliwunfalasa.

And so Sanitisation proceeded amongst clouds of steam, scents, yells and swearing - and one delighted yelp followed by a long languorous moan.

Exactly one hour later, the Chris Keel that walked out of the door at the other end of the Sanitisation Building would not have been recognised by Sam Curtis. Or Backup. Or Malone. Or anyone else that knew him at all. He was relaxed serenity at its most placid passivity. He was brushed and scrubbed clean, his clothes pristine, and he looked like a choirboy. Even his bow looked immaculate where it had only been unused pristine before.

He politely enquired where might await his audience with The Elder, then sat where he was bid in the lotus position (which he could do, since he was so beautifully supple) and waited patiently.

He definitely wasn't feeling well.

*****

Quite a long time passed before Collagen Bimbette came to rouse Chris from his spontaneous fit of meditation and informed him that he was to meet with The Elder in his office.

He was besieged by hordes of Elves giving him advice on protocol when addressing The Elder which, since the village can only have housed a couple hundred Elves at most, must have been pretty much all of them.

He was informed by one female Elf quite haughtily that he was only being granted an audience unquestioned because The Elder was curious about his species, and that vermin were normally donated to the Clinically Insane Quintet of Professional Cleaners to practise on.

Big double doors were opened and Chris was ushered into a grand office, with cleverly beautiful prisms set into windows casting rainbows over the finely tooled leather desk and chairs, and he gasped in appropriate awe as instructed.

"Oh, do cut the crap," came a cultured voice, and a tall Elf looking remarkably like Orlando Bloom handed Chris a plain earthenware mug. "Here, drink this and you'll feel much better."

Chris obediently drank and then choked as he remembered the sickly sweet feeling of – compliance - obedience – Ack! initiative and fire all gone...

He blinked at The Elder as he finished choking and retrieved his sense of self from wherever the Sanitisation process had sent it. "Do me a favour, and Never, Ever let my boss get ahold of that Sanitary place, because I really want to keep my sanity." Chris looked The Elder up and down. "Hey, aren't you a little young to be an Elder?"

"I get that a lot." The Elder smiled and slouched in his chair, his booted feet on the desk, and Chris had the impression that Bimbette and her friends would have had apoplexy if they'd seen him being so improper. "But I'm not an Elder, I'm The Elder. Theophilantilus Elderaminae. Dad was boss around here, and I inherited. But, you know it's incredibly boring being perfect. I hear there's something big going down in Rivendell and thought I might go incognito, see if I can't get a bit of adventuring in. Do you know anything about it?"

"Nope," said Chris, not in the least bit interested. He had that peculiar feeling like he'd forgotten something again, but couldn't figure out what it was. "I don't suppose you'd like to help us rescue a friend from some Orcs, would you?"

"Is she cute?" Legola - I mean, The Elder asked.

Chris stared at him. "I guess."

"Lemma see - cute girl plus ugly Orcs, versus Tolkein plus fame- mmm, sorry my man, you're on your own... " he broke off as a very loud rumble interrupted. "When did you eat last?"

"No idea," Chris replied, as a very large sizzling hot mighty meaty pizza with extra pepperoni embedded itself in his imagination and refused to budge even for the hanky-panky pie with squirty cream that tried to butt in.

"Well, I would offer you food, but you know what they say. Sorry." The Elder shrugged and tried out various suitably enigmatic and archery type poses in front of a long mirror on the wall.

"Er, no, I don't know what they say," Chris responded, just a little bit put out, even as his saliva glands worked overtime at the mental image of pizza that just wouldn't go away and was so vivid he could have sworn he could smell it.

"Er..." The Elder looked a bit embarrassed as he glanced away from the mirror. "They say, 'Feed a human once and you'll never get rid of him.' Can't take the chance, sorry old man."

"Yeah, thanks for nothing," Chris muttered petulantly.

"My pleasure," The Elder beamed. "Bim- er, the one with the lips will show you out. Ta ta!"

And so it was that Chris found himself ejected from the Elves. And he finally remembered that he'd forgotten to ask them if they'd seen Sam.

He turned around and, as expected, the village was no longer to be seen.

Chris berated himself for forgetting his best friend, partner and... uh... mate...? That was the English word, right?

But, not one to let guilt anywhere near him, (at least, not since that nasty incident involving Spencer and the staple-gun when he'd been so eaten up with guilt that Sam'd had to rescue him from suicide by Budweiser), he was determined to find Sam and rescue him in the nick of time from whatever foul fate had befallen him, and gallop off with him into the sunset.

Just as he rounded a small hillock, wondering exactly what it was he should to do to achieve this goal, Chris heard lots of crashing and banging. Using his Navy SEAL stealth skills, and being quite successful since he was fortunate enough to be clad in extra soft lycra, fifty denier, green tights rather than chain mail, not to mention being camouflaged by the amount of noise coming from the other side of the hillock, Chris peeked over.

A large group of pig-ugly humanoids were beating on one familiar chain mail-clad figure.

Knowing how deadly he was in a fight, what with his body having been trained to be a deadly weapon and all, Chris took in the fact that they were outnumbered by around twenty-five to one and decided that the odds were acceptable. He analysed the fact that the opposition wore a mishmash of metal and leather while he was in tights and an attractively studded jerkin and decided that it would add a little challenge to the exercise. He even factored in the number of bastard swords, maces and morning stars the enemy carried versus his bow, (which he had no idea how to use as bows weren't covered in either the Navy or the SEAL training manuals unless they were of the crossbow variety), which he was planning on wielding like a club or baton, and decided his supreme skill with any hand to hand weapon, makeshift or otherwise, would more than compensate.

So he performed a magnificent swan dive off the top of the hillock to land in the middle of the fight. Right next to Sam.

Unfortunately, Chris failed to consider that Sam might not have anticipated his stylishly dramatic entrance. He also failed to take into account that Sam was wearing chain mail. And he was not.

He landed catlike on his feet, straightened up preparing to launch a devastating assault upon the enemy, and received Sam's iron clad elbow in the face.

Ouch.

*****

Sam was not having a very good day.

Muddy holes had followed low hanging branches, and he still couldn't work out how to get his chain mail off so that he could get dry. He was quite thankful that while his stomach was rumbling, he didn't seem to be in any need of water or in any immediate danger of starvation, since he hadn't worked out how he was supposed to uh... you know...

But it was very itchy wandering along with mud caught between the cracks, because it seemed that in D&D land padding under the chain mail was rarely required as it spoiled the way the armour moulded to every contour of every muscle. Speaking of which, since the last mud hole, the mail that had so lovingly clung to the curves of his backside was now beginning to ride up. There was chafing, and there was chafing.

Being the brave soul he was, he'd forged ahead regardless of his discomfort or that he was quite lost, only bemoaning the fact that Chris wasn't there to listen to him whinging, which usually made him feel better.

He'd no sooner rounded a small hillock when these really, really ugly pig-faced humanoids had pounced on him. Lots of them. And they smelled (not as badly as the Goblins, it has to be said, but there was something definitely whiffy about them). And they piled on top of him. He used all his very best training, but apart from one very human yell behind him, it really didn't do any good at all.

Soon he found himself sitting alongside a foul-tempered Chris, who sported a stunning black eye and kept staring daggers at him for reasons unspecified. They were both tied with rope and gagged while the pig-like humanoids grunted and loitered aimlessly around them.

Until the leader who, obviously, was the leader because he was the biggest, squatted inelegantly in front of them. Sam and Chris both pulled away in horror as they both had the same idea - but the thing just grunted at them. All they could make out was 'Orc' and 'help' and 'food'.

Sam, with his many-talented tongue and multi-skilled linguistic abilities, decided that these guys were helping some Orcs find food and that he and Chris were to be the food. The creature seemed to get very frustrated and soon summoned a very small and clearly often beaten up pig faced creature, who translated.

The translation ran something like this:

"Hizzonor the great hunter Fruggit demands that you say us is Orcs cuz that's what we are and Orcs are the bestest race in the whole of the, the... here." Small arms waving grandly. "You is stupid looking humans and we's has to have two stupid looking humans to help get Orc home village back to before. Cuz tasty food fell down from up but wouldn't get on fire for dinner. And tasty food got girl Orcs all bossy and won't let great hunters in village with dirty feets and stuff. Tasty food says to get two stupid looking humans and she go away. We man Orcs want tasty food to go away. Long, long away. You need be good for us. No making run away. So says great hunter Fruggit."

Chris and Sam both looked huge eyed and incredulous and started speaking at the same time around their gags.

The great hunter Fruggitt (the biggest of the creatures) waved his fingers and immediately a couple of others untied the prisoners gags.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sam stated, trying to spit out the taste of really old, dirty socks.

Chris blinked incredulously at Sam, as the after taste in his mouth was just cheesy enough wake up the pizza that had been dozing in his imagination. "You don't? I thought it was perfectly clear."

"You are being sarcastic... no? Go on then, smart arse, what did he say?" Sam challenged.

Chris blinked again. "He said that they're all Orcs, that Backup appeared out of nowhere, and rather than be cooked for dinner she talked all the girl Orcs into revolting against the men. She told the boy Orcs if they found us, she'd leave them alone, so please can we not run away."

Sam blinked stupidly. "He did? He said that?"

"He did," confirmed Chris and the two Orcs in front of them nodded happily. "So what d'ya think we should do? If I could get my hands on a gun or knife or even a solid piece of wood, I reckon we could take them. If you watched your elbows we could, anyway."

Sam blinked intelligently. "I think we should just play along actually," he said. "We've met Orcs and Dragons, so we just need Elves and we can go home."

"Oh, I got the Elves covered," snorted Chris, then mentally rewound the conversation. "You did Dragons? How'd you get out of that one?"

"Oh, you know, bravery and skill as per usual," Sam said airily, hoping that Chris would be impressed.

"Wow," said Chris, impressed.

"Right," said Sam smugly. "We go see Backup and get away from the Orcs and then we can all wake up and put this behind us." Sam stared uncomfortably at Chris who was staring unblinkingly back at him. "What?"

"You think this is all a dream?" Chris asked, disbelievingly.

"Of course," replied Sam, and wriggled his bum in an effort to get comfortable. "The way I see it is this, Chris. None of this could happen in real life, right? The last thing we all remember before ending up here is getting blown up. It's obvious, isn't it? One of us, and that would be Backup if DeeYem was right, is having this dream. She's probably in a coma or something equally as traumatic for everyone concerned and breaking her out of the Orc village is symbolic for her to break out of her coma."

"Right," said Chris, frowning as he tried to get his head round this idea. "But in that case, if Backup is in control of the Orcs' village, then she's in control of her own coma."

"Yeah..." said Sam, thoughtfully. "That woman is very scary isn't she?"

"And I guess she picked us to rescue her because we were with her when we exploded?"

"Well, yeah, and because we're her best friends and are even now probably holding her hands and begging her to wake up."

"Wasn't that the ending to the Wizard of OZ, Sam?"

"Well, yes. But it works so well, you know?"

"Uh huh – but... we exploded too."

"Well, yes, that does put a little kink in things," Sam admitted.

"I guess she was closest to the bomb."

"But we were only a few inches above her," countered Sam.

"Maybe she took the brunt of the blast so that we only had superficial injuries."

"That... actually doesn't make any sense, Chris. We're talking about a bomb, not a water pistol."

"Yeah well, it was your stupid idea," Chris snorted. "This is real, or it's as real as it needs to be. It's weird and I want out as much as you do. But this is happening whether we like it or not. We have an 'out' - we've nearly finished the task. The worst case scenario as I see it is that we've been abducted by aliens and-"

"Whoa!" Sam cried. "Don't!"

"Don't what? I was just gonna say... "

"I know what you're going to say Chris, but you know I don't believe in that stuff. "

"But... "

"No! I don't want to know how real all this is."

"But Sam, you're taking all this in your stride, you must be accept... " Chris began trying unsuccessfully to back away from Sam, whose eyes were beginning to pop and face had gone a very interesting beetroot colour.

"I. Am. In. Denial!" Sam stated through clenched teeth. "This is not real! Someone else is dreaming all this. I am not really here."

Chris blinked. "Oh. Where are you then?"

Sam's big girly scream of Denial Interruptus could be heard for miles around and through several different realities.

*****

Backup looked up as a big girly scream echoed through the trees and smiled as she recognised its source.

She'd be going home soon then.

*****

A little while later, when the men all stood in the middle of the Orc village, the girl Orcs all came out of their dung heaps and posed before the gob-smacked group. The boy Orcs all had their jaws dropping to the floor, copious amounts of drool piddling over their feet. Chris' and Sam's eyebrows vanished over the top of their heads as they considered whether they should faint, run or scream.

A pig-faced, gnarly skinned, dribbling girl-Orc wearing a Vivien Westwood style outfit made of something that looked suspiciously like it had come from the inside of a dead animal, and revealing far to much warty flesh, was just too much for any man's stomach to take. Several dozen of them was impossible.

*****

When they revived from their mutual and impromptu swoon, Backup, her green gown now hooked up and cut and re-sewn into a Versace rip off, explained that she had encouraged the downtrodden Orc women to start their own home-industry of designer Orcish clothing, something she was certain would go down well in any major city, and she understood that Rivendell wasn't that far away. Her market research had unfortunately been limited to what the Orcs had told her, but if she understood correctly the Orcs were the most superior and respected species in Middle Earth.

Chris and Sam both chose to remain non-committal on this conclusion.

She'd also taught the Orc women good manners and how to manipulate the men folk into learning good manners also.

Sure enough, as they looked around they saw shining examples of Backup's work.

One boy Orc was mending a dung heap roof while watching a girl Orc sunbathing in just two crude strips of... something brown. Another girl Orc was making a huge vat of something that smelled alcoholic and seriously revolting but that some of the boy Orcs were salivating over, especially when the cooking girl Orc lifted one warty leg and propped it up on the side of the cauldron while she stirred. And mentioned one or two little tasks she needed doing... and so on...

Finally though, they had to leave the village because the great hunter Fruggit told them to.

And they did.

Backup skipped ahead as Sam and Chris walked together through fields filled with flowers, wondering what to do next. A small breeze blew petals gently into the air, and coincidentally blue eyes met green and held as if in a vacuum where just the two of them existed, each holding their breath as they wondered...

...Poof...

*****

"...one of these days we'll deal with a female bomber who'll have all her wires neatly tied and labelled and I... Oh!" Backup stopped scarily abruptly.

"Oh?!" Sam and Chris chorused.

"Oops..."

Sam and Chris stared at each other and swallowed hard.

"Just kidding, boys." She stood up with the remains of the bomb, now deceased, no longer of this earth, and completely dead, dangling from her fingers.

"Jesus," said Chris, letting out the breath it seemed he'd been holding forever, "I swear my entire life flashed before my eyes."

Sam swallowed nervously. "Um, your entire life?" he squeaked. "Nothing a little, um, odd then?"

"Are you all right, Sam? You've gone a real funny colour."

"Er, sure, Chris, I'm fine, I'm fine, I just... Never mind."

The three walked out laughing, one a little more strained than the other two.

In a nearby supply cupboard, two little grey aliens concluded that it was much harder to wipe English minds clean than it was American (or Canadian for those who know the difference), and argued vociferously whether it would have been better to let the scenario run a little longer to see what might have happened.

END


End file.
